2010/2011 La Liga Season, Matchday 28: Hércules vs. Real Madrid
65th minute, Hércules 1-4 Real Madrid.
The giant screen flashed "GOAL," and the stadium fell into silence, save for the cheers of a handful of Real Madrid fans.
"SUKER!!!!! His 34th league goal! The Croatian superstar is charging toward the 40-goal milestone this season!"
Suker sprinted to the corner flag to celebrate, every camera lens fixed on him, flashing incessantly.
In this match, Suker had one goal and two assists. He set up Di María and Alonso for their goals, while Kaká delivered a perfect pass for Suker to slot home with ease.
Since the second half of the season, Suker's goal tally hadn't grown as rapidly as before. Opponents were doubling down, marking him relentlessly—some even with a pathological determination to keep him scoreless, even if it meant losing.
Take the last match, for example. Suker failed to score at home, but Real Madrid still won thanks to goals from Kaká and Benzema.
Fame came at a cost: opponents were now maniacally targeting him. Suker had mentally prepared for this, but he still underestimated their sheer resolve.
Yet despite it all, Suker kept delivering—goals and assists. That was his ability. The idea of completely shutting him down? Impossible.
By the 78th minute, Suker was substituted. Mourinho was now meticulous about managing his fitness and form. With a goal and two assists to his name, Suker left the pitch satisfied.
"Keep it up!"
He high-fived Carvalho before taking his seat on the bench.
"Damn it! These guys were glued to me—couldn't shake them off!"
Suker grumbled as he drank water.
This match, he'd been marked by at least two players the entire time, with a third lurking nearby. Yet he still found a way to score.
The other Real Madrid substitutes glanced at Suker, smirking. They'd seen how aggressively Hércules had defended him. Most players would be silenced by just one marker, but even with two, Suker had managed a goal and two assists. The man was a monster.
"Suker, look here—when you received the ball, there was space to your right. Next time, try passing there."
Suker glanced up at assistant coach Faria.
Faria was a good-natured, diligent coach, well-liked by the players. Nobody had a bad word to say about him—unlike some other coaches who earned mocking nicknames.
But Faria's kindness had its downside: he sometimes oversimplified things.
Like this suggestion to pass?
"Yeah, right!"
At Real Madrid, even if Suker flubbed a shot, no one would complain. He was the team's undisputed star.
Besides, every striker was selfish.
A striker who was too selfless? That wasn't a good striker. A true forward needed the confidence to take the shot when it mattered—unless their position was hopeless or a teammate was wide open.
But asking a striker like Suker to pass? Good luck.
Back at AC Milan, even Inzaghi had to feed him the ball. Who was he supposed to pass to now?
Suker let the advice go in one ear and out the other. Whatever. Next time, he'd do the same.
The match ended soon after. Once Suker was subbed off, Real Madrid switched to defense, and the score remained 1-4.
With this win, Real Madrid extended their unbeaten streak to 28 matches. Only ten games remained in the season, and they were still on a historic run.
Spanish commentator González couldn't help but marvel:
"Real Madrid might deliver something truly shocking this season..."
He'd never dared imagine it before—no team had ever gone unbeaten, let alone won every match. Arsenal's "Invincibles" had come closest with a 49-game unbeaten run, but they'd still drawn some matches.
Real Madrid, though? 28 straight wins. Including the Copa del Rey and Champions League, their unbeaten streak was nearing 40 games.
Previously unthinkable, but now, with just ten matches left, it was becoming terrifyingly real.
"The biggest challenges left for Real Madrid are Barcelona, Atlético Madrid, and Sevilla. If they defeat these three, we might witness something unprecedented—a perfect season."
"This has never happened in football history."
"And it could happen with Real Madrid."
"Mourinho—we have to admire this Portuguese coach. He's transformed Real Madrid into a true Galácticos team."
Exactly.
This was what the Galácticos were meant to be. The first iteration? All flash, no substance. A star-studded squad that collapsed under pressure.
But this Real Madrid? Unstoppable.
Barcelona had always been the team everyone praised, but now, Real Madrid inspired sheer terror.
Barcelona was strong but occasionally faltered. This Real Madrid, under Mourinho's obsessive demands, never made mistakes—or rather, opponents couldn't force them to.
Many believed that with enough pressure, they could beat Real Madrid.
But how much pressure would that take?
Before anyone could press them, Real Madrid would already have torn their defense apart.
Barcelona's strength lay in their unpredictability—opponents couldn't figure them out.
Real Madrid's strength? You knew exactly how they'd play—and still couldn't stop them.
The latter was far scarier.
Barcelona could be studied and exploited. Real Madrid? Only internal collapse could defeat them.
It was like admitting: "Give up. Wait for these guys to decline, then maybe you'll have a chance."
That was the hard truth.
Even Barcelona would get slapped twice if they tried.
Post-Match Press Conference
Mourinho, facing the cameras, was in high spirits:
"Real Madrid is a unit. That's the foundation I've built. What did I do? It's simple."
He held up two fingers.
"First, the best defense in the world."
"Second, the best counterattack in the world."
He shrugged. "That's how we play. I've just revealed our core philosophy."
The reporters gritted their teeth. Mourinho was gloating, but what could they do?
He'd laid out Real Madrid's blueprint for dominance—and no one could stop it.
After putting the media in their place, Mourinho felt refreshed. These were the same outlets that had criticized him for arrogance. In the past, he'd lashed out or even blacklisted certain journalists.
Now? His attitude had shifted.
No need to waste words. Facts were the best slap in the face.
He handed a note to Faria: "Blacklist these media outlets. I won't grant them interviews. And have Marca publish the rest."
Faria glanced at the note.
It was pure profanity—barely disguised.
Mourinho grinned.
Nothing beat a good rant.
March 16th
Arsenal arrived in Madrid for the Champions League Round of 16 second leg.
Usually cooperative with the media, this time, they refused all interviews. Even the usually composed Arsène Wenger wore a scowl, his expression tense.
That night, at Arsenal's hotel, a black sedan pulled into the underground parking lot.
A hooded figure knocked on the window.
The door opened, revealing Sandro Rosell, Barcelona's president.
"Cesc, long time no see."
Rosell smiled.
Fàbregas got in, tense. "I snuck out. What do you want?"
"Did you do as I asked?" Rosell countered.
Fàbregas clenched his jaw. "Yes. I spoke with Wenger. He agreed—€35 million, and I'm yours."
Guilt gnawed at him. Wenger had raised him, but for his career, he had to leave.
After facing Real Madrid, the gap felt insurmountable. He couldn't win the Champions League at Arsenal.
He was selfish—but this was for his future.
What stung was Wenger's lack of resistance. €35 million for Arsenal's captain? A bargain.
"€35 million…" Rosell sighed. Fàbregas' stomach dropped.
"Sorry, Cesc. We can't afford that."
"What?" Fàbregas stared. "You're Barcelona! How can you not have €35 million?"
"We just renewed Messi's contract, raised wages… finances are tight. We can only offer €30 million."
"That's not enough!" Fàbregas snapped. "€35 million is already a discount!"
He didn't say it, but he knew—he was worth at least €50 million. Wenger was doing him a favor.
"Take it or leave it." Rosell shrugged. "Unless… you convince Wenger to lower the price."
Fàbregas left in a daze.
In the car, Rosell called Vice President Bartomeu.
"It's done. He's shaken."
Barcelona could easily afford €35 million. They just didn't want to pay.
Fàbregas wasn't Messi or Suker—not worth splurging on.
Rosell, newly elected, wanted a PR win—a marquee signing at a bargain, like AC Milan's Galliani.
Fàbregas was already halfway there.
As for Arsenal? Not his problem.
Next Day: Pre-Match Training at the Bernabéu
Fàbregas was distracted, misplacing passes.
"Cesc!" Wenger barked. "Focus! We'll talk later. Tonight, we fight."
Fàbregas exhaled. Wenger was right.
This match was crucial. If they beat Real Madrid, Barcelona would have to pay up.
He didn't want to burn bridges. He'd leave—but with dignity.
He'd earn that €5 million difference on the pitch.
Fàbregas clenched his fists.
Beat Real Madrid. Prove his worth.
That night, under the Bernabéu's lights, the chant roared:
"¡Hala Madrid!"
Arsenal's task was daunting: score three goals without conceding to overturn the first-leg loss.
But Fàbregas rallied his team:
"We fight tonight! Real Madrid aren't invincible—we'll make them crack!"
His speech lifted morale—until they entered the tunnel.
Standing beside Real Madrid's calm, white-clad giants, the pressure returned.
Fàbregas glanced at Suker at the end of the line.
Their eyes met.
Suker glared.
"What're you looking at?"